


Bad Decision Time

by Jiksa



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Silly, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in the early a.m., Patrick finds himself staggering gracelessly down a dimly lit hotel hallway with Pete, hazily suspended in the moments between the messy night out and the groggy morning after. The time Pete lovingly refers to as "bad decision time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Decision Time

Somewhere in the early a.m., Patrick finds himself staggering gracelessly down a dimly lit hotel hallway with Pete, hazily suspended in the moments between the messy night out and the groggy morning after. The time Pete lovingly refers to as ‘bad decision time.’

It’s too early to call it a night. Certainly too early to call it morning.

He stumbles suddenly over the ratty laces of his converse. Pete grins at him and slurs, “We need candy.”

“We need gatorade,” Patrick counters, bracing a hand against the wall to stay upright. "Electrolytes."

“I need to suck on some sweet tasty bon bons.”

“Fuck,” Patrick laughs. “The last thing you need right now is sugar.”

“Too right,” Pete says, hitting his head on the door frame as he fiddles with his keycard. “I just need to suck on _something_.”

Patrick grinds his pelvis pseudo-sexily against Pete’s ass and whispers gruffly into his ear, “Sounds like you need some of this.”

Pete _freezes,_ though, and the sound that escapes his lips, far from the disgusted snorting giggle Patrick had expected, sounds suspiciously like an actual _moan_. Patrick’s own breath catches in a confused response. Wait. What?

“Yeah,” Pete gasps, pressing back against Patrick’s groin to further confuse things. "Yeah, I want that."

Wait. _What? ___

The world tilts suddenly to the side and then Pete’s mouth is hot and wet and demanding against his own, one hand pulling on Patrick's hair in a way that kind of hurts but mostly feels amazing, his other hand sneaking under his shirt, over his sensitive— oh fuck—

And then, even more perplexingly, Patrick’s mouth is moving against Pete’s in response, Patrick’s body crushing Pete’s against the door, Patrick’s knee pressing in between Pete's legs.

“Fuck,” Pete groans into his mouth, taking his own shirt off because _of course_ Pete always has to be naked. “Fuck yeah—”

Patrick pulls back and stares at him, incredulous. “Open the fucking door. Why are you taking your shirt off in a hotel hallway? Where is your keycard? I swear to god—”

But then Pete drops to his knees in front of Patrick and yanks at his fly and Patrick forgets any coherent thought he's ever had about keycards because Pete is— _ohhhh_ _god_. Pete’s mouth is on his cock and he’s licking and sucking and _ow, fuck, teeth_ and then his tongue is swirling around the head and his fingers are on Patrick’s balls and then he’s gagging and coughing and of course this is a fucking disaster already.

“Pete,” Patrick hisses, looking down at Pete slumped against the door with his half-hard dick between his lips. His cheeks are rosy and there’s eyeliner everywhere. “Pete, you’re fucking terrible at this.”

Pete mutters something around his cock that is most likely obscene and insulting and then he gets back to it with renewed gusto. Patrick gets a hand in Pete’s hair and leans his forehead against the hotel room door and lets the disaster unfold. Between Pete’s mouth on him and the booze in his system, he can’t quite risk closing his eyes for fear of passing out.

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes when Pete gets some modicum of rhythm going. “Yeah, fuck, that’s. Shit, Pete, that’s less terrible.”

Pete flips him the bird before wrapping his hand around Patrick’s cock. His grip is warm and tight and spit-slick where it moves alongside his mouth. It’s not a exactly a model blowjob, but it is _a_ blowjob and that’s more action than Patrick’s seen in a while. There’s still a mostly random rhythm and an almost alarming amount of saliva, but Pete seems to be giving it the old college try and, aforementioned concerns aside, it’s starting to get really fucking good. Soon Patrick’s panting and biting his lip and trying not to fuck Pete’s mouth, and he’s frustratingly close, his thighs tensing, but—

“Shit Pete, I think I’m too drunk to come.”

Pete grins and says, “I have a trick for that.” He sucks a finger into his mouth, looking up at him with mischievous eyes like that's going to promote any sort of orgasm. His finger is shiny with spit when it slips out of his mouth, and then it slips oddly between Patrick's legs.

Patrick should see it coming, really fucking should, but somehow he doesn't, and then he finds himself standing in a dimly lit hotel hallway with Pete Wentz’s finger probing at his asshole.

He swats Pete’s hand away, tensing up all over. “Pete, that is _disgusting_.”

“Just let me— you’ll like it, okay? Trust me.”

Patrick doesn’t know why he ever falls for anything Pete ever says, but Pete looks so earnest from where he’s looking up at him on his knees, that Patrick just swallows, and nods, and lets Pete bring his fingers back to where fingers should never go.

Pete brings Patrick’s knee clumsily over his own shoulder and sucks him down again and pushes a finger into him and it’s weird and uncomfortable and he’s about to snap and tell Pete that this is gross and ridiculous when— _Oh_. That’s. _Ohhh_. Pete doesn’t seem to be doing much beyond wiggling his finger against something barely inside of him, but Patrick feels the heat swell in his pelvis and stomach and chest and he’s blushing because it feels so fucking good. He comes so hard his knees buckle and one knee knocks Pete in the face and all manner of unattractive noises spill from his gasping mouth.

When Patrick’s vision returns enough for him to look back down, Pete’s chest is heaving and his lips are red and swollen and spit-slick. Patrick catches the outline of Pete’s hard cock through Pete’s impossibly tight skinny jeans and feels a twinge of sympathy for the poor tortured thing.

He pulls his pants back up and drops to his knees in front of Pete. “Hey,” he whispers, stroking Pete’s stupid bangs out of his stupid face. His skin is so hot he's burning up. “That was really fucking good.”

“Yeah.” Pete pulls him close and kisses him again. He tastes like come and beer and breath and he’s breathing heavily through his nostrils. Patrick gets his knee between Pete’s legs to press against him until Pete yelps and doubles over on himself and gasps, “ _Balls_ , what the fuck, _ow_.”

"Shit." Patrick winces in sympathy and rubs Pete’s knee apologetically through the denim. “Do you want me to, uh, return the favor?”

Pete nods slowly, biting his lips. He leans back against the door behind him, spreading his legs in invitation.

Patrick's hand slides gingerly up the in seam of Pete's jeans. Fuck, he's so warm, so toned, so... undeniably _hard. _“Uh. Where’s your keycard?”__

Pete bucks up to meet Patrick's hand, his eyes sliding shut when Patrick's fingertips slide over the bulge in his jeans. "I gave it to you."

Patrick checks his pockets with the hand not currently fondling his best friend in a public space. "No, you didn't."

"Well I don't have it."

“You just had it—”

“I know we just had it!”

“Check your-”

“Check your own!”

“Why would it be in _my_  pocket?”

They both rummage around and it takes them entirely too long to realize the key card was under Pete’s ass all along. Said rummaging takes even longer because they keep pressing up against each other and touching skin and biting necks and kissing mouths. Pete is so hard he whimpers every time Patrick gets anywhere near his junk. When Patrick triumphantly resurfaces with the keycard, they exchange an enthusiastic high five and then lose another few minutes making out.

"Are you really gonna blow me?" Pete whispers as he's licking his way into Patrick's mouth and more or less humping Patrick's thigh in perfect time. "For real?" 

Patrick swallows, giving the thought a moment to sink in. It's not like it's the first time he's ever thought about it. "Yeah."

Pete reaches up to slide the keycard in and Patrick tries to help him stand and then Pete’s kissing him all over again and they shove against the door but for some reason it hasn’t opened. They try again, Patrick jabbing the damn thing in while Pete ruts up against him, dragging his wet mouth against his neck. They spend another few minutes pushing the keycard in and flipping it over and getting nothing but red lights and angry beeps. Patrick blows on the magnetic stripe and rubs it against his T-shirt.

“This is not working!” Pete snaps after a while, throwing up his hands. "The keycard is not working!"

“Did you seriously think I hadn’t noticed that?”

“Trick...” Pete mutters sullenly, changing tactics with surprising speed. “Can’t you just suck me right here?”

“We have a _keycard,_ Pete!" Patrick hisses, licking tentatively the magnetic stripe before trying again, because, hey, that might work? Desperate times call for desperate men, and Patrick is quickly running out of rope. "It’s what sets us apart from mere animals. Help me open this damn door!”

But Pete just starts pounding his fists against the door, because apparently he's not as easily set apart from baboons as Patrick had thought.

Then suddenly, entirely unexpectedly and to everyone’s collective horror, a sleep-mussed older lady with teddy bear pyjamas opens the door. “Can I help you?” she asks.

Pete and Patrick both retreat into the hallway. Pete’s not wearing a shirt, Patrick’s fly is gaping and they just had kind-of-sex against what Patrick is rapidly realizing is most likely _not_ the door to Pete's hotel room.

“Um. Good evening—I mean, morning— I mean, how are you,” Patrick starts, because basic politeness is the least he can offer the woman whose door he has just orgasmed against. “We are looking for my room. I mean, his room.”

The woman runs her eyes over them both, taking inventory of their various states of undress. Her lips purse. “What number is it, dear?”

Patrick looks down at the keycard. 417. He glances at the number beside the woman’s door. 414.

Pete turns him around by his elbow and then they both stare, horrified realization dawning on their faces, at the 417 emblazoned on the door directly opposite the poor woman’s.

Her door shuts quietly behind them.

Pete mutters. “We are so fucking dumb.”

Patrick nods solemnly, then meets his eyes with the merest moment of hesitation. He suddenly feels startlingly sober. “Um. Do you still want to…?”

Pete brings Patrick's hand to where Pete’s cock is, inarguably, still kind of hard. “What can I say, old ladies do it for me.”

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Patrick says, backing Pete him up against the door to kiss him, _really_ kiss him like he's been wanting to do for as long as he can remember. He takes a moment to catch his breath, to look at him, to whisper, "This is probably a bad decision, though. We're pretty drunk."

Pete's brow furrows. He jerks away, the back of his head hitting the door behind him with a thud. "Well, we don't fucking have to if you don't want to."

"No." Patrick slips the keycard into the slot. It beeps green and then the door opens behind Pete's back. "I want to."

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. Porn?  
> 
> 
> [tumblr](http://jiksax.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/jiksax) | [email](mailto:ifckfairies@gmail.com?Subject=Hey%20girl)  
> 


End file.
